'When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And e'en the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, Is dimmed and vanished too;-- Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy wing of love, Come, brightly waiting through the gloom, Our peace-branch from above! Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright, With more than rapture's ray, As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day.'" The head weighed upon her arm, she did not withdraw it Scarcely breathing herself, she listened to the regular respiration, that said the distempered brain was locked in forgetfulness. One--two--three hours--and a cold lifelessness succeeded to the smart and aching suspended circulation had first produced, a torpor, creeping to her shoulder--affecting her whole body; but she would not terminate that blessed slumber. A fleet step ascended the stairs,--it did not belong to any of the household, yet was not strange. A knock--which she could not answer--the bolt was cautiously drawn. "Helen!" said her brother's voice. The "hush-sh-sh!" silenced him, but he entered. The moon revealed the dark and white forms upon the bed. "Your sister sleeps!" said Ida, under her breath. "I beg you to retire--she must not see you. Oh! go!" for she was awaking. "Ida!" said Mrs. Read; "what am I doing here? Oh! mercy! I remember!" "Peace! peace!" and with gentle violence, Ida forced her back to the pillow. "You are safe and well now." She was still for a minute. "Whom were you speaking to when I awoke?" "Some one opened the door, and I did not wish you disturbed." "It was a servant, then? I dreamed Richard had come. Oh! if he should!" "Do you want us to send for him?" "Never!" "But the fatigue of travelling rapidly over so great a distance will be too much for your parents. Some of your friends ought to be with you." "But not Richard! any one else!" Ida was perplexed. He would insist upon seeing her, as soon as he heard that she was awake;--they must meet in the morning, and the shock then might unfit her to endure the trials of the day; yet to tell her now, appeared cruel and unnecessary. "You have not eaten to-day--you will take some nourishment if I bring it?" "Don't leave me!" "Only for a little while. Promise me to be good and quiet, until I can run down stairs and back." "Only do not stay--I am afraid to be alone." Richard was pacing the hall with a troubled air. "How is she?" he asked. "More composed." "May I go up?" "It pains me to deny you, but she can see no one, at present." "This is extraordinary, Miss Ida. We know that there is not ground for this excessive grief, and Helen has not miss-ish nerves. What ails her?" His frown commanded her to reply, explicitly.